


self-portrait (oil on canvas)

by shairiru



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5951557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shairiru/pseuds/shairiru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seijuurou meets the artist of the exhibit he went to. He has a special request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	self-portrait (oil on canvas)

ART EXHIBITS are a wonderful thing, Seijuurou has always thought. It gives him a glimpse of what his life could have been if he’d chosen to continue to hold on to the canvas and the brush that occupied his youthful hands of thirteen. But here he is eight years after, donned in a spotless suit and shiny leather shoes, his fingers now spending away on keyboards and papers. He has never tried painting since then, but those who knew of him told him he had a potential to be one of the greatest.

 

To be _one of the greatest_ is never enough for his father though, and consequently, not for him. He let go of his artistic pursuits to be able to learn how to stand on top of Japan’s ever growing business world and remain there for as long as he could. Akashi Seijuurou was a name no one within the Japanese economy didn’t knew about.

 

That was also why he liked going to art exhibits. Next to none recognizes him and he can let go of his restraints. He can admire every piece there is, every color and stroke that makes a painting, every curve and scratch that makes a sculpture. There he can pretend he is one among the masterpieces, a work of art to be deciphered.

 

 

 

HE STANDS before the museum located in the next city under the bright haze of the midmorning sun. An exhibit for a relatively new artist is announced some time ago and Seijuurou had been interested ever since. He heard the artist is around his age and that the exhibit would be quite a collection. He is hoping to meet the artist, too, if their paths would cross. Seijuurou didn’t want to miss the chance to have a conversation about art.

 

Upon entering, the staff at the reception desk gives him directions to the room where the exhibit is ongoing at the right wing. He thanks her promptly and makes his way to the room, skimming through the pamphlet he was given. He didn’t take the time to read the descriptions written about the artist and his paintings anymore for he’d want to be unbiased by the time he interprets the works of art on his own.

 

Cold air greets him as he arrives at the room of the exhibit. Quite a number of people are already inside, eyeing the dozens of paintings hung on the wall. It is obvious at first glance that the artist has no actual preference for medium. Seijuurou can see equal numbers of oil on canvas, charcoal, acrylic paint, and pastel arts. He has also no preference for subjects. There are human subjects, still life, sceneries, even abstracts. It is quite remarkable, really, that an artist of his age seeming without a forte would excel on all media and topic. He wonders why he’s only heard about this artist now.

 

He comes closer to each paintings then, taking note of their titles and committing to mind how they appear in the surface and deep within the canvas. _Lily White. Waning Crescent. A Girl With Her Daisies. Piano. Discordant._ The titles are pretty much self-explanatory, simple, saves the audience from trying to decode whether there would be hidden messages in there. 

 

But it were the works itself that demanded attention, that implored to be dissected apart stroke by stroke, line by line, to unearth the stories that lie within. He stops at every painting, his hands clasped together, his head bent in an angle, his thoughts already churning in his mind. 

 

Why is the lily alone in the middle of a still pond? Why is the moon half-hidden beyond the horizon? Why is the girl facing that way with that expression on her face? Why does it look like the piano hasn’t been played for a long time despite the lid being open? Why are these shapes and patterns chosen by the artist? What is he trying to convey? Seijuurou’s foundations on art theory are challenged, and it is a very welcome experience.

 

He then goes to another painting entitled _Reflection_. A small bedroom is seen on the canvas, things on it in chaos. There is a bed, its sheets crumpled, unkept since the occupant woke up from it. The light is a soft orange against the silver gray wall. The door at the far end of the room is closed and the shadow of the window rails stretched on the floor. The back of a canvas is visible on the lower left part of the painting. It is as if he stared long enough, he might see an artist working at it.

 

“Do you find it interesting?”

 

Seijuurou turns to the voice to his right and sees a tall man with a hair that is the green of spring and clothes of someone in long search of his muse. He notices the tips of the man’s fingers and sees that they have remains of paint.

 

“Everything here actually is interesting. This one just seems to hold more meaning than the others.”

 

The man turns to look at the painting then, pushing up his glasses in thought.

 

“Do you paint?” he asks.

 

“I used to. It was a childhood passion of mine.” Seijuurou glances at his pamphlet once more, knowing he is speaking to the artist of the exhibit. His eyes widen at something he reads, and he turns his attention at him, looking more closely. He supposes he should be scared, but it is a feeling he never finds himself in. “Is there any special reason as to why I can see you, Midorima Shintarou?”

 

 

 

_MIDORIMA SHINTAROU(1889-1910) was an artist beyond his time. His many works, despite not being recognized in his generation, are slowly being celebrated today for his diverse creative practice with different modes and medium. His first known work was_ Discordant(1899,acrylic on canvas), _winning an award at a local art competition in his city. His last work was_ Reflection(1910, oil on canvas), _said to be found in his room from where he allegedly committed suicide._

 

 

 

IT IS highly unlikely for Seijuurou to find himself listening to a spirit’s plea to help him move on from the world that grounds him, but here he is in a quiet corner of the museum where no one can see him talking to thin air.

 

“ _Reflection_ is an unfinished work,” Shintarou tells him. “It was the painting I was working on before I...I jumped off from the window that you can see there.”

 

Seijuurou shivers at the thought of him taking his own life. What could have driven him to do so, he wonders.

 

“It’s an unfinished business of some sort. If the painting is finished, I could finally go wherever I should be. I was trying to run away from this world, and death doesn’t change it a bit.”

 

“Can’t you finish it yourself?”

 

“I can’t touch my own paintings. I’ve tried before.”

 

“What makes you think I will agree to this?”

 

“You already wasted time listening to me. Besides, I can feel that you want - no, you _need_ a reason to go back into painting again. You wouldn’t be able to see me if you didn’t have this desire.”

 

Shintarou is right. He is very much interested, of course. The artist himself have given him permission to overwrite his own. And it’s the surreality of all this that makes him say:

 

“Procuring the painting is easy even if they aren’t technically for sale. Tt’s just money and connection matters. But I haven’t been in practice for over a decade. I’d have to get back to my footing first.”

 

“Then you’ll find me in your company while you do so. I can promise not to be a bother.”

 

He probably doesn’t realize that the mere fact that Seijuurou can interact with him but not anyone else is already a bother, but he does not tell him this. Shintarou’s eyes hold a glint of hope behind his glasses. He doesn’t want to make an already dead person feel even worse.

 

 

 

HE RETURNS to his flat with the _Reflection_ tucked under his left arm and a bag of art supplies on his right. The guard of their building helps him carry the blank canvas he also purchased. Once he has settled everything in place, he rummages through this cabinet and pulls out the easel he stored in there. There was no really reason to bring it with him before aside from its sentimental value. At least now, it serves him a purpose.

 

“This is a pretty big place for someone to live in alone.”

 

Seijuurou merely turns at Shintarou’s voice with a faint expression of surprise. The other man is sitting quite comfortably next to the dining table, his legs crossed and his hands on his knees.

 

“I didn’t know you were already here.”

 

“I’m tied to the painting. I go where it goes.”

 

“I’ve been wondering since earlier what else was missing in _Reflection_. Is the missing piece yourself behind the canvas?”

 

“That’s right, actually.” Shintarou doesn’t mask his surprise. “I was just about to tell you. How did you realize?”

 

“It’s not hard. The title is _Reflection._ First thing that comes to mind is a mirror. I can see the canvas but no artist.” He places the easel next to the window and places the newly bought canvas on it. “There goes your answer.”

 

He goes to his work table next and removes everything on it. He pushes it near the easel, and there he places his art supplies. Shintarou watches quietly as he organizes everything in a system he is most familiar with. Complementary colors are placed next to each other, the brushes are on the rightmost. Seijuurou stares at the canvas, his hands itching. But first, patience.

 

“I will need practice drawing you first,” he tells Shintarou. He shows him the sketchpad and the pencils. “Can I?”

 

“By all means,” Shintarou raises his chin a bit and his glasses catch the light of the setting sun, “Do.”

 

 

 

WITH KNOWING the lines and shadows that form Shintarou’s face comes knowing him as a person and who he was as an artist. It’s the strangest thing, being friends with a lost soul, but Seijuurou gets along with him perfectly fine, even better than with the actual people he gets to interact with in his field.

 

“You’re actually pretty good,” Shintarou says when he shows his initial sketch of him. “The lines are rough and too edgy, but the shadow is nice. Something tells me you didn’t actually stop even with the mere drawings.”

 

“One cannot kill an artist’s soul, they say.”

 

“Don’t I know that best?”

 

 

EVEN IF he cannot touch his own paintings, Shintarou can do so about anything else. This fact Seijuurou makes use of to have himself an opponent at chess, something Shintarou has claimed he is good at. Shintarou later discovers that Seijuurou is far better. Nevertheless, every match is a challenge and they are both content in each other’s company.

 

And so it has been their routine every time Seijuurou arrives from work that they play chess to rest. And after Seijuurou has won, he will then resume practicing on drawing or painting Shintarou while the other sits quietly opposite him.

 

One time, Seijuurou sees Shintarou drawing on a piece of paper while he himself practiced painting.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Nothing,” he mutters, not even bothering to look up.

 

Seijuurou leaves him be and continues painting, making the green of his eyes prominent from the shadows. Later, Shintarou gives him the drawing he is working with and he sees that it is a realistic sketch of him, focused on his own canvas. His lips are curved into a small smile and even with only a pencil, Shintarou made his eyes look like they sparkle in delight. Seijuurou realizes how great Shintarou is then with his art.

 

“Looks like you are where you perfectly belong,” he tells him before excusing himself to disappear into thin air like he always does at night.

 

He tucks the sketch in his wallet and goes to bed with his words in his mind.

 

 

 

“YOU SEEM ready to finish _Reflection_ now.”

 

Seijuurou jumps on his seat in surprise at Shintarou’s voice behind him. It is a weekend and he started his day early by working on the finishing touches on his rendition of Shintarou. He has probably been only staring at it for the past few minutes. It is beautiful. _He is._

 

“A little more time,” he shakes his head. “I need more practice.”

 

“I’ve been here for too long, Seijuurou.” 

 

How long has it been? Weeks? Months? Seijuurou only knows that it hasn’t been long enough.

 

“Do you still need to go?” He asks, turning around to face him. “What if you only wanted to leave because you had no reason to stay? Because you felt alone?” He grabs his wrist, icy and cold against his warm hand. “It’s not the case now, is it?”

 

Shintarou stares at his hand before carefully prying it away from his wrist. A hollow ache forms in Seijuurou’s chest as he does so.

 

“It is exactly why I must go soon. You are starting to give me a reason to stay.” Shintarou laughs bitterly, it is almost sad. “But I can’t, Seijuurou. I’m already dead, and that’s something you and I have to accept.”

 

 

 

IT FEELS like a funeral march, the small distance from where he placed the _Reflection_ back to his easel next to the window. Shintarou sits before him, quiet and serious. He has been waiting for this moment for a long time, he has prepared himself for death. 

 

Seijuurou dips his brush into the palette and makes the first stroke, Shintarou’s pale skin against the dim room.

 

“My mother died when I was young,” he finds himself saying. Shintarou’s brows rise a bit, but he holds his position. “She told me I would be great artist.”

 

“You already are.”

 

Seijuurou works continuously, knowing perfectly well which color goes with which, having stared at his face for a long time already. The green of spring that is his hair, the red of autumn that are his lips. Shadows dance on his face as his eyes on the canvas stared back at him.

 

“You will go back to painting, would you?” Shintarou finally says, a hint of urgency in his voice.

 

Seijuurou applies the last stroke and leans back to stare at his work from afar. Shintarou is still on the other side of the canvas, waiting for his reply.

 

“I will.”

 

He turns the canvas around and shows Shintarou the finished painting. Seijuurou knows _Reflection_ is something Shintarou painted when he was at his lowest, but the Shintarou he painted is someone with a small smile on his face and a challenge in his eyes, someone very much alive. It is the Shintarou he came to knew and like.

 

“Thank you, Seijuurou.” Cold wind blows from the windows, as if beckoning him. He starts to blend into his surrounding, the few rays of the sun passing through his body. “I wish we could have met before.”

 

“We’ll meet again next time,” Seijuurou smiles, his eyes starting to feel warm. “We’ll paint together, then.”

 

The last thing Seijuurou sees is his nod and the curve of his lips as he says, “ _Together._ ”

 

 

x

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For Fuwa for the Midoaka Secret Santa! (:3


End file.
